She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 984

Pinned to her seat by the acceleration, Helena's heart hammers against her ribs. She is utterly terrified, yet she refuses to ease off the gas. The engine roars, the needle on the dashboard shaking as it flirts with the redline.

Up ahead, the black SUV jerks erratically between lanes, narrowly dodging oncoming traffic and throwing the once-steady flow of cars into absolute mayhem.

Through the chaos, she catches a fleeting glimpse of a silhouette in the backseat. The shape alone confirms it's Morris. A sickening wave of regret crashes over her—why did she have to step out to take that phone call? He was already recovering from a car crash; she should have kept her eyes on him every second.

The bodyguards' motorcade catches up. Three black sedans swarm the SUV from different angles, trying to force it into a barricade.

One sedan surges up the right flank, its bumper inches from the SUV's side door, trying to pin it against the guardrail. The SUV jerks the wheel hard left, swinging its rear end out and ripping the sedan's front bumper clean off. Metal fragments spark and skitter across the asphalt into the drainage ditch.

The bodyguard doesn't back down. He revs the engine and stays glued to the SUV's tail.

Helena tears her eyes from the road for a split second to check her rearview mirror. The traffic behind her is completely gridlocked. She can't hear a thing except the deafening roar of engines and the agonizing screech of burning rubber.

A sharp curve approaches. The SUV is moving too fast. The driver slams the brakes at the entry, the tail fishtailing wildly before restabilizing and accelerating again.

She doesn't brake. Her car tilts precariously through the bend. Her bag slides off the passenger seat, its contents spilling all over the floorboards.

The bodyguards keep trying to maneuver, but the SUV's windows roll down, and several gun barrels emerge.

Gunfire erupts, echoing down the entire street.

Pedestrians scream. Drivers swerve in panic. Trailing closely behind, Helena ducks instinctively over the steering wheel, her breath hitching.

She has only ever seen gunfights in movies. Now that it is happening right in front of her, sheer terror grips her throat—but the thought of Morris trapped inside that vehicle makes her grind her teeth and press on.

Seeing the gridlock ahead, an idea flashes through her mind. She knows this area. Back when she was his personal assistant, she drove this route constantly between his penthouse and the atelier.

There's an old, dilapidated access road ahead, chewed up by heavy cargo trucks. Normal drivers avoid it like the plague. But it bypasses the roundabout entirely and dumps straight out at the intersection the SUV is speeding toward.

Cutting them off would be a suicide mission.

Then, *CRASH!*

A deafening impact rocks her. The SUV's front end plows directly into her side. The speed isn't fatal—the SUV had slowed for the intersection—but the force is enough to spin her car 180 degrees. The passenger side caves in violently, the door warping out of shape as the windows shatter. A shower of glass rains over her thighs, bringing sharp, stinging pain.

The SUV is completely immobilized.

Her hands are still clamped onto the steering wheel, her nails digging into the leather cover. The seatbelt digs painfully into her collarbone, but she doesn't even check herself for injuries.

Her vision swims. Her chest heaves with the chilling aftermath of adrenaline.

She sees the side doors of the SUV slide open. Two men in black pile out, weapons drawn.

The bodyguards arrive at the exact same moment. Three sedans slam on their brakes in unison, the doors springing open as men in dark suits pour into the street.